


Whatever there is to steal

by vonherder



Series: Cherry Chocolate [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mourning, Tony Feels, the word damn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:09:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vonherder/pseuds/vonherder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing was ugly. Damn ugly. Actually, Tony didn’t even know why his hands didn’t start burning the moment he touched the damn thing, it was that ugly.</p><p>(A prequel to <i>Deep Browns and Warm Reds</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever there is to steal

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song _Basket_ by Dan Mangan. Here, have a listen to the perfection and maybe cry a little because I always do: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3KB8PgkBlhQ
> 
> This, quite obviously, is not the breakfast scene we all want and crave. Instead we have Tony’s first venture to Phil’s apartment, because Tony needed to have his say before I could even figure out what would happen at breakfast. (I’ll get to that eventually, worry you not. It will probably take a bit longer, as this was a sort of surprise! story.)

The thing was ugly. Damn ugly. Actually, Tony didn’t even know why his hands didn’t start burning the moment he touched the damn thing, it was that ugly. 

The closet was full of sweaters; some of them expensive, most new and at least half of those still attached to their price tags. 

He grumbled and slipped the damn thing over his head.

The monstrosity he had managed to get his hands on was clearly handmade and it itched something awful. It was worn and ratty and there was a hole through the left elbow. It fell half down his thighs, several inches past his fingertips and hung loosely off of his right shoulder. Simply put, the damned thing was a disaster.

And to look at the thing, _oh_! What the hell kind of pattern was it even knit from? It was as if the maker had started trying to imitate Four’s scarf, only to realize that they were four colours short and three colours wrong—a thick band of dirt here, a small strip of rust there, a little dead grass to light things up just a little. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at the sleeves and their unmatched horror. No wonder the thing had been shoved deep into the back of the closet.

Tony grumbled to himself once more and shuffled back out of the room and down the hall. 

The living room was cramped, though not because of its size. It was filled far past the brim with things that Tony could find no use for. With knick knacks and worn, crumpled maps and stacks upon stacks of paperbacks. With discarded magazines and piles of paperwork never quite completed. With a stack of DVDs never quite watched and library books never quite finished. 

Tony gently touched the edge of a tie where it had been left, draped over the back of the couch. He traced one finger over the line of grey where it slanted through the dark blue and turned away. 

He bunched the damnable sleeves up at his elbows and shuffled further into the room, only to promptly trip over a wayward stack of books. With a curse he stumbled back up, grabbing the top book as he went. He turned a betrayed glare to the mess on the floor and settled into the hideously green easy chair by the window, book clutched to his chest.

He cast a glance over the room and closed his eyes. Rain pattered at the window next to him. He swallowed and turned himself away from the rest of the room and drew his legs up to his chest. The sleeves itched at his wrists and, briefly, he wondered at which point during his crash they had slipped back down. He chose to ignore it and instead cast a wary glare at the damned things. They couldn’t even do their job properly and just stay goddamn put.

He swallowed and turned toward the window once more.

The street beyond was quiet and calm and untouched, but over the tops of the apartments he could still see distant wisps of smoke and the skeletons of buildings that no longer touched the sky. The rain began to fall just a little bit heavier. 

Distantly, Tony could feel a corner of the book digging into his chest. He looked down at the thing, curious. He didn’t remember why he’d picked it up. He turned it over in his hands, looking at the worn, black spine where the title had been worn away and the smudges colouring what used to be a crisp, white cover. The shape of a cloud was pressed into its surface.

A quick glance inside it found dog ears and minute tears and the same smudges as the cover.

Tony sighed out and let the book fall open as he began to read. The first pages he found were nearly bare, each containing only a short passage. Tony turned the page and then closed the book and let it fall to the floor as he stood. He strode from the room, stumbling once more over the books he had spilled. 

He caught himself against the back of the couch, teeth clamped down on his lip to keep his curses from spilling forth. He’d had just about enough of the damnable place; it was too small, too cluttered, too empty and dirty, too many books and too few photos, too much space and too little room. The lonely, single chair at the tiny dining table, the single couch and easy chair surrounded by stacks and piles and cases of books, god, all of it. It was too much and too little and it all made Tony so damn _sick_.

He straightened with a sneer and marched off back down the hall, never once minding the tremble in his fingers.

He flung himself at the bed, hitting and punching and clawing like it meant a damn thing. Like it would change anything at all. His vision blurred, but he didn’t cry, he only beat harder at the pillow before him.

Damn the pillow. And damn the sweater. Damn the books and chairs and that damnable fucking tie. Damn the dust and the clutter. Damn the emptiness.

Damn the loneliness.

Tony collapsed, eventually, with a miserable little sound. He curled onto his side, arms tucked close. He bunched the fabric of the sweater up against his face and breathed in, his eyes fluttering closed.

The damn thing smelled like sandalwood, spice, bittersweet chocolate as dark as the stripes on his sweater and caramel as sweet as he could ever imagine it. Beneath all that was the clean scent of deodorant and the tang of gun oil. It was something that no amount of washing would ever get rid of, as much now a part of it as the yarn it had been made from.

He wondered just how often Phil had worn it, had curled up by the window to read his sad little book, had sat at the table with the morning paper spread out before him. He clenched his eyes shut and inhaled the scent once more. 

He burrowed further into the covers, breathing deep, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow it would be easier. Tomorrow it would be better and the emptiness wouldn’t look so lonely. Tomorrow, maybe, everything would be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hello. Welcome to the Cherry Chocolate ‘Verse. I hope you enjoy your stay. 
> 
> (Also, there may be mistakes. I said this was a surprise and I meant it--I started it six hours ago and haven't really edited it. So, please. Point me at my mistakes.)


End file.
